


reverie

by oryx



Category: Kamen Rider Ryuki
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:50:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2485106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tezuka takes it upon himself to play matchmaker. (In a sense.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	reverie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ceestar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceestar/gifts).



> just something short and silly, don't mind me. ;; whenever someone mentions tezuka i am there

He says he doesn’t believe in fortune telling, doesn’t believe in a future that can be predicted, and yet this is the third time this week he’s come by.  
   
Miyuki’s seen his type before – the skeptic who wants to be proven wrong. But there’s something about this one, this Kido Shinji, that’s different, somehow. Usually skeptics either feign smugness or are too far-gone and desperate to care how they appear.  
   
Kido Shinji is neither blatantly dishonest nor at the end of his rope.  
   
Miyuki would call him a remarkably _normal_ person, if it weren’t for the way he seems confused whenever he shows up. (“How did I get here?” he mutters to himself one afternoon. There isn’t the slightest hint of insincerity in his voice, like he honestly doesn’t know why his feet carried him to this place. Like it was something beyond his control.)  
   
There’s an oddness about his fortunes, too. His future, his present, even his recent past… Miyuki can see glimpses of them all, but it’s like looking through curved glass, or through unfocused eyes, the image distorted and askew. As if his life has been thrown off track from the one he’s supposed to be living.  
   
“You met someone a few weeks ago,” Miyuki says slowly, staring deep into the heart of the burning match, at the vague shapes that form within. “They’re important to you, but you haven’t realized it yet.”  
   
“Haa?” Kido frowns at him from across the table. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
   
Miyuki raises an eyebrow. “I can’t tell you _everything_ , you know. Some things you’re meant to work out for yourself. I believe this is one of them.” He goes to extinguish the match with a flick of his wrist, but instead watches as it slips straight through his fingers, his hand suddenly paralyzed as searing pain courses down the length of his arm.  
   
“H-hey,” Kido says, sitting up a little straighter. “Are you okay?”  
   
“Fine,” Miyuki says, through gritted teeth. He reaches over and presses his good hand against his arm, feeling the outline of the scar even through the fabric of his shirt. “It’ll be over in a minute. Don’t worry about it.”  
   
It’s been getting worse as the weather gets colder. Some sort of muscle memory, perhaps, his body remembering the circumstances of its injury. As the pain begins to let up he flexes his fingers experimentally, grateful when each of them responds in turn. Hands are important to a fortune teller, after all – needed to flip coins and shuffle cards, to cast stones and trace the lines on another person’s palm.  
   
(But there are others for whom hands are far more important still.)  
   
He reaches into the bag at his feet; pulls out a flyer and hands it to Kido, who takes it after a moment of hesitation, still watching Miyuki warily.  
   
“A piano concert?” he reads aloud. “‘Music performed by Saito Yuichi’… What is this?”  
   
“Exactly as it sounds. The person you’re looking for – the one you’re thinking about right now – I have a feeling you might see them there.”  
   
Kido glances up at him sharply. “That’s – I’m not _thinking_ about anyone,” he splutters. He leans across the table, then, mouth curved into a grimace. “Y’know, you’d get a lot more customers if you stopped being so creepy and, and,” he makes a nebulous gesture with his hand, “ _mysterious_ all the time.”  
   
“… Well I don’t know about ‘creepy,’” Miyuki says, trying and failing to suppress an amused smile, “but ‘mysterious’ does sort of come with the job, I’m afraid.”  
   
.  
   
.  
   
He slides the flyer across the table, and Akiyama stares down at it in silence for a long moment.  
   
“Do I look like the kind of person who listens to classical music?” he says finally, leveling Miyuki with an incredulous look.  
   
“Not really,” Miyuki admits. “But you also don’t look like the kind of person who drinks tea in quaint cafés, and yet here we are.”  
   
As if on cue, the welcoming bell rings and a group of chattering middle-aged women step through Atori’s front door, bundled in scarves and complaining loudly about the cold.  
   
Akiyama’s expression darkens. “Listen,” he says, voice low and biting. “I don’t know why you keep hanging around me. I’m not interested in having my cards read, or my horoscope told, or whatever bullshit you’re selling.”  
   
“I’m not selling anything,” Miyuki says, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He pauses, then, and traces a finger around the rim of his teacup thoughtfully. “You’ve been feeling it too, haven’t you? Déjà vu? For things you know have never happened before.”  
   
Akiyama’s eyes narrow, his hand on the table slowly curling into a white-knuckled fist.  
   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters.  
   
“No need to be so wary,” Miyuki says. “I’m just trying to piece this together, for the sake of understanding. You can’t honestly claim to be uninterested, can you?”  
   
Akiyama says nothing – merely averts his eyes pointedly – and Miyuki sighs.  
   
“Fine,” he says. He rummages through his pockets and places a few coins on the table to cover the cost of the tea, then pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. “I had a feeling you’d be needlessly difficult about this. I’ll be around if you change your mind. Give Eri my regards, will you?”  
   
He turns to walk away, but barely even makes it a few steps before a hand descends on his shoulder and he’s spun back around, Akiyama grabbing him by the collar and pulling him in close.  
   
“You some kind of stalker or something?” he asks, each word taut with tension. “How do you know her name?”  
   
Miyuki considers this. ‘Give Eri my regards’? Why did he say that? He doesn’t know anyone named Eri, doesn’t have any memories associated with that name. (But no, he thinks, somehow that’s not quite right either.)  
   
“Honestly?” he says, and reaches up to pry Akiyama’s fingers from his shirt. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”  
   
.  
   
.  
   
“Sorry I’m late,” Kido calls, jogging up the steps to meet him. He’s breathing hard, hair in disarray, and he frantically tries to smooth it back down. “My landlord was trying to serve me an eviction notice so I had to sneak out the back way and – well. Whatever. Sorry for all of this, too.” He gestures at himself with a sheepish smile. “I don’t really… own any nice clothes.”  
   
He’s in a fraying navy suit jacket that’s at least two sizes too small and jeans that look like they’ve been ironed in an attempt to make them “fancier,” and Miyuki has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.  
   
“It’s fine,” he says. “I get the feeling you won’t be the only one underdressed.”  
   
Sure enough, when Akiyama’s motorcycle pulls up a minute later he is yet again wearing that terrible leather coat. (Or perhaps he owns several of them? One for each day of the week? Miyuki would not surprised.)  
   
“I’m amazed you came,” he calls.  
   
“Didn’t have anything better to do,” Akiyama says. He seems to be consciously taking the steps one at a time to avoid looking like he’s in a rush. “I'm not here for you, so don’t flatter yourself.”  
   
Miyuki can feel the corner of his mouth twitch. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”  
   
Akiyama falters mid-step when he sees Kido, who is staring at him in wide-eyed recognition.  
   
“You,” he breathes, and then rounds on Miyuki with a scowl. “What is this? Some kind of set-up?”  
   
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Miyuki glances between them. “Could it be you two know each other?”  
   
“We don’t,” Akiyama says coolly. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”  
   
“…O-oi!” Kido protests. He takes a step closer, hands clenching at his sides. “What the hell?? I’m a nice person, y’know! You’d be _lucky_ to know me.” Then adds, under his breath: “Asshole.”  
   
“What did you just call me?” Akiyama demands, and Miyuki looks at his watch with a quiet sigh.  
   
This is going about as smoothly as he’d anticipated.  
   
.  
   
.  
   
Yuichi is waiting off to the side of the stage, out of view of everyone but those in the first row, foot tapping in that way it does whenever his nerves get the better of him. Miyuki lifts a hand to get his attention, and upon seeing him Yuichi seems to unwind visibly, the tension in his shoulders relaxing as he smiles.  
   
(Miyuki wonders, sometimes, what a world without that smile would be like. A sad one, undoubtedly, and it worries him how easy it is to imagine. Something about this moment, this contentment, feels so inexplicably fragile.)  
   
The theatre lights begin to dim, then, and a spotlight takes their place. A middle-aged woman in a business suit steps out on stage to thank the audience for their attendance. She introduces Yuichi – calls this his “highly anticipated debut.” He walks out into the spotlight and takes a bow, all the nervousness of before gone from his face, and seats himself at the piano with an expert kind of grace.  
   
He begins with Debussy’s _Reverie_. Miyuki settles back in his seat, closing his eyes as he listens to the soft opening notes.  
   
His arm aches - a dull, familiar throb that starts at his bicep and laces downward to the tips of his fingers. The two people sitting on either side of him are barely paying attention to the music, too busy sneaking curious, sidelong glances at each other (Kido much more obvious about it than Akiyama).  
   
But it's worth it, Miyuki thinks, with a kind of conviction that startles him. _It's worth it._


End file.
